


Highway for Wolves

by tajargirl



Category: Teen Wolf (TV), The West Wing
Genre: Big Block of Cheese Day, Crack, Crossover, Episode: s01e05 The Crackpots and These Women, Gen, Miscommunication, Werewolves, real wolves, unrepentant crack honestly, you can probably see where i'm going here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-10
Updated: 2018-01-24
Packaged: 2019-03-03 03:01:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13332099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tajargirl/pseuds/tajargirl
Summary: "We had a meeting," says Jerry, "in the Roosevelt Room. In the White House. With C.J. Cregg.""Wait. Wait. The government knows about wolves?""Of course," scoffs Marge. "And let me tell you, they are not taking the threat anywhere near seriously enough."





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is for [Sarah](http://sarahbearah64.tumblr.com), the only person who I know will respect me in the morning. I love her. 
> 
> Jerry, Loomis, and Marge are from Season 1, Episode 5 of The West Wing. The relevant clip can be found [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Avo0-8GvBlA). Know that Jerry is played by Ron Swanson--this is more fun if you picture him as such.
> 
> I am [on tumblr](http://tajargirl.tumblr.com).

Loomis hears a snap, a yelp, and a very loud thud.

“ _Are you okay_ ,” he hisses through his teeth to the vague outline of Jerry on the forest floor ahead of him. No response. “ _ARE YOU OKAY_ ,” he tries again, still hissing.

“ _Shhhhh_ ,” snaps Marge, not quietly at all. She turns around at the front of their little file. “Wolves are not _deaf_. If you have any desire to _find_ one, _ever_ , you will be _quiet_. Jerry is _fine_.”

Jerry, who is fine, sits up. “I’m getting continually less convinced that there are any out here. We haven’t seen any physical evidence of—“

Loomis cuts him off. “And I’m still not sure I wanna find the wolves? Like you know me, I’m more of a PowerPoint guy. Like, resources and education. I could make you a PowerPoint of—“

“We agreed I am in _charge_ , since I was the only one willing to make the _itinerary_. So you will _follow me_ and we will _find_ the _den_.” Loomis is fairly certain the look on Marge’s face could drop him where he stands, if he could actually see it.

They trudge on in silence for another twenty minutes, trying their best to maintain the noise discipline imposed by Marge at the beginning of the night. Loomis is a little proud of how little he stumbles. Less than Jerry, at least. They’re approaching the pre-selected turnaround point, the edge of a ravine that no one particularly feels like crossing in the dark, when a boy steps out from behind a tree. He’s wearing a red sweatshirt, and seems to glow faintly under the half moon.

“Hey there, guys. Nice evening for a walk,” he grins, leaning casually against a baseball bat like they aren’t three miles from the nearest road in the middle of the night. Loomis looks frantically at his coworkers, who both seem to have shot past the fight-or-flight response and landed on “freeze.” Jerry recovers first.

“Hello, son. It’s not, particularly. Say, have you seen any wolves around here?”

Loomis winces as the kid (who’s probably at least twenty, really, certainly old enough to murder three strangers in the woods with a baseball bat) narrows his eyes. “Well, that depends a lot on who’s asking, doesn’t it?” he says.

“Concerned citizens.”

“There are no wolves in California.”

Marge interjects. “ _Please_ , we all know the signs are there.”

“Do we now,” the kid asks, softly. Loomis feels a chill creep up his spine. Marge, who may or may not have had her sense of self-preservation removed along with her sense of humor, pulls her backpack off her shoulders and starts rifling through it.

“There have been no fewer than _seventeen_ animal attacks reported in this county alone, over the last eighteen months. That’s nearly _three_ standard deviations above the mean. And if you’ll look at these coroner’s reports—” She is waving a stack of papers in the kid’s face, but he’s made no move to take them.

“If you’ve looked at those coroner’s reports, you know those attacks ended almost four months ago. I guarantee you, the sheriff’s department has that situation handled,” the kid says. “And furthermore,” his voice drops into a dangerous-sounding register, “there are those who don’t take kindly to hunters in Beacon Hills.”

Loomis shivers. Jerry looks about ready to rediscover his flight response. Marge straightens up, affronted. “Well, if I see any hunters, I will _let them know_. Meanwhile, _we’ll_ just continue our _research_ , to the benefit of the Banff National Park pack, and _you_ can continue to be _unhelpful_ , to the benefit of no one.”

The kid perks up at that, a new dimension of interest in his expression. “You’re with a pack?”

Jerry clears his throat. “Well, we’re human, so there’s that. But, um. As much as we can be, I guess.”

The kid nods along like this makes total sense. “Man, I know what you mean. Banff National Park, huh? That’s where, Alberta? Sorry, we’re pretty newly re-established out here, so I’m not so familiar with the Canadian packs. But we’re definitely looking to reach out. I’m Stiles Stilinski, by the way.” He doesn’t reach out for a handshake, just does a funny head jerk that Loomis feels compelled to imitate.

Marge handles introductions, launching immediately into her standard spiel about pack size and territory and local natural resources, Jerry backing her up with some statistics he pulls from his filing cabinet of a brain. Loomis is still reeling from how quickly the evening progressed from horror movie opening to networking event when he hears Stiles ask, “So, who’s your current alpha?”

The woods are suddenly quiet aside from the sound of Marge taking deep, measured breaths. Jerry stares straight ahead, a muscle working in his jaw. Loomis swallows, and works the photograph out of his pocket.

“This was Pluie,” he says, hands trembling slightly as he holds the photo out to Stiles. “She was, ah. She was shot and killed in British Columbia. Six months ago.”

Stiles looks subdued for the first time since he appeared. “May I?” he asks. Loomis holds the photo out for him to take. “She was beautiful,” Stiles says, looking down at the grey and white wolf. Pluie had been gazing into the camera, chin resting on her paws. Loomis had taken the picture himself, could still remember the respect and awe he felt just being near her. “I’m so sorry for your loss.” Gently, he hands the photograph back.

Loomis clears his throat and continues. “Yeah, well, it’s been . . . harder, without her. It was hard losing her and then, well, a lot of the trust we had there was because of her. It took a while for the next alpha to get established, and now, _augh_!” Loomis shrieks just a little there at the end. While he was talking, the biggest wolf he had ever seen padded silently up and was sitting brushed up against Stiles’ left leg. His coat was so dark it blended into the night. Marge had gone back into freeze mode, and Jerry appeared to have transcended reality, staring uncomprehendingly and unperturbed at the wolf.

Stiles cracks a grin. “Sorry, guys, lemme introduce my alpha. This is Derek. He objects to me wandering around the Preserve on my own, and as you can see, he’s a dramatic motherfucker.”

Marge, to her credit, squeaks out a slightly hysterical “nice to meet you.” Loomis is transfixed by Stiles’ hand, gently tangled in the fur behind the wolf’s ear. “He really trusts you,” he wonders.

“Yeah, he does,” Stiles says, looking down fondly. “Like you said, humans in wolf packs. It was a long time coming, but he does.” He looks back up. “Look, I’d love to help you guys out with whatever it is you’re researching. Or, at least look into it. If you’re interested, we could do an exploratory dinner tomorrow? Josie’s Diner, seven o’clock. Best milkshakes in town, I swear.”

In the presence of a decision to be made, Marge snaps back into leadership mode. “Agreed,” she says, “it was lovely to meet you,” like they had just had a completely normal, businesslike introduction.

“Likewise,” grins Stiles, “see you tomorrow.” He gives a little wave, and then disappears into the trees, baseball bat over his shoulder. The wolf follows. Loomis is fairly sure they head in the direction of the ravine, but there is none of the noise that generally accompanies the fall of a body from a great height.

“Little Red Riding Hood,” Jerry says, nonsensically, then giggles. His colleagues turn to look at him. It seems to be much harder to see now that Stiles is gone. Marge sighs, then begins to lead the way back to the car.


	2. Chapter 2

Stiles slides into the booth at Josie’s Diner fourteen and a half minutes after the appointed time. Marge has been giving regular updates on his tardiness.

“Hey guys,” he chirps. “So Allison tells me you either haven’t set a trap, or you’ve set one that’s too good for her to notice so, either way, we appreciate it. This is Scott.”

The crooked-jawed boy who slid in next to Stiles grins. “Hi, I’m Scott!” He gives a cheerful wave. Loomis likes him already—he’s far less unnerving than Stiles is. Jerry shifts in his chair, as if maybe he should have checked for traps as well.

The waitress appears by Scott’s elbow. She’s carrying two milkshakes, a plate of curly fries, and the largest hamburger the world has ever seen, all of which she sets in front of the boys.

“Thanks, Jen. Two more coming, can we add that little table on to the end?”

Jen rolls her eyes. “Stiles, you may as well have your names carved into that thing. Your food will be right out,” she adds, nodding to the out-of-towners before moving on to the next booth.

“So, where you guys staying?” asks Scott. “Definitely not the Days Inn—the manager’s a total vampire. Plus, Stiles checked there.”

“Where exactly do you get off being specist against vampires, Scotty, we talked about—”

“I’m Marge,” says Marge, unimpressed with Scott’s affability or Stiles’ loquaciousness, “those are Jerry and Loomis, and we’re staying in a _tent_.”

“A tent?”

“On the Preserve.”

“That’s . . . awfully bold of you,” Scott hesitates.

“It’s a very _nice_ tent.”

“We tried to obtain more funding since, you know, it’s not the safest kind of research to conduct without equipment,” Stiles is nodding along to Loomis’ explanation, “but we were, uh. Fairly firmly rejected.”

“We’re working on a more formal application. They’ll see, they _have_ to,” interjects Marge.

“Where did you even start, though?” asks Stiles. “Is it all back alleys and dimly lit bars?”

“You watch too many movies about the mob,” Scott tells him.

“You’re a heathen,” Stiles says.

"We had a meeting," says Jerry, "in the Roosevelt Room. In the White House. With C.J. Cregg."

"Wait. Wait. The government knows about wolves?"

"Of course," scoffs Marge. "And let me tell you, they are not taking the threat anywhere near seriously enough."

The bell above the door interrupts her pronouncement, and the two most beautiful people Loomis has ever seen enter the diner. Loomis feels an inappropriate urge to point out that their runway-ready outfits and high cheekbones clash horribly with the folksy décor. Jerry knocks over the saltshaker.

“Lights of my life!” announces Stiles, and an effortless rearrangement occurs, ending with Scott against the wall, the redheaded woman at the edge of the bench, Stiles along the edge of the small table, and the dark-haired man at the head. Marge looks like she wishes she had included a seating chart in the itinerary. She hates feeling underprepared.

“Marge, Loomis, Jer, this is Lydia, our resident banshee.” Stiles gestures expansively at the woman, whose impressive construction of curls and quick acknowledgement seem neither shrill nor ghastly.

“Rude,” mutters Marge. Lydia’s gaze turns to her, suddenly sharp as a blade.

“Is there a preferred term?” she asks. Her voice is a perturbing mix of cold steel and sugary sweetness, but there’s a note of genuine curiosity.

“We’ll have plenty of time to compare notes,” Stiles continues unfazed. “Of course, you met Derek last night.” He runs his hand briefly through the man’s hair below his left ear, coming to rest on the join between his neck and shoulder.

Loomis frowns. “We didn’t. I’m Loomis.”

Stiles frowns. “Yeah, you did.”

Marge frowns. “No, we did _not_.”

Stiles’ eyebrows pinch together. “No, _Derek_. From last night.”

Jerry, with a great deal of gravitas, pronounces, “We didn’t. I would remember this man.” He appears to be referencing Derek’s general bone structure, and the exact way his t-shirt fits over his chest.

“It’s _Derek_ ,” insists Stiles. At their continued looks of confusion, Derek rolls his eyes, which promptly flash bright red as long fangs drop down from his upper gums.

The only motivator more powerful than fear of death is fear of embarrassment, and Loomis’ shriek is abruptly cut off as every diner patron turns to stare at him. In the silence that follows, Marge emerges from underneath the table, and Jerry appears to return from whatever realm he had visited in the middle distance just over Derek’s shoulder. Stiles sits with his mouth hanging open, looking helplessly around at his companions. The silence stretches on for another beat, two, before Scott bursts into laughter. Derek is still sitting impassively, face returned to normal. He twitches his wrist and shoulder, and one by one the patrons return to their meals, several offering solemn nods to Derek. It is the freakiest thing Loomis has ever seen.

Lydia turns sideways on the bench to address Stiles. “You,” she states, “are the stupidest human being _alive_.” Scott appears to have aspirated a curly fry.

Stiles waves his hands in the air in self-defense. This seems ill-advised to Loomis, but then again, he is currently sitting stock-still at a peeling diner table with a—the word _werewolf_ flits through his mind, fails to find anything to latch on to, and floats away again. Stiles is speaking.

“They were three miles from the road with—”

Lydia is examining her nails.

“I mean, _complete_ coroner’s reports, who pulls records like that except—”

“Do you even remember—”

“Yeah, but that was the best-researched eighth-grade social studies paper Mrs. Mulcahy had ever seen, _Scott_ —”

Derek clears his throat. Stiles turns to him beseechingly. “They said their alpha had been killed. They said she had been shot by hunters. I couldn’t— I don’t—”

Derek reaches over and laces his fingers through Stiles’, standing and gently pulling him up from the table. Lydia turns to the group.

“In the future, I’m checking all ‘networking’ events conceived of Stiles’ brain for supernatural language that isn’t criminally vague. This will not happen again,” she sniffs, rising to follow the Derek and Stiles out the door. Scott is still chuckling slightly, wiping tears from his eyes.

“So, you guys wanted to save the wolves. The real wolves. Like, ‘grrr.’”

“Grrr,” Jerry agrees absently.

“So, what was your plan?”

Marge draws herself up to her full seated height, dignity surrounding her like a shroud. “A wolves-only roadway.”

“A . . . for real wolves? A roadway for real wolves only?”

“Complete with highway overpasses and no cattle grazing,” says Loomis, in a weak attempt to be helpful.

“But . . . okay, how are you gonna teach wolves to follow a road?”

“Our scientists are working on a plan,” says Jerry. His face and his voice and his mustache convey utter seriousness. Scott looks bemused.

“Okay,” he says. “Okay. Well. You all have a nice dinner, and good luck to your . . . scientists. Jen?” he calls out to the waitress. “Will you put this on Derek’s tab?”

“Already did, love,” she answers.

“You’re the best. Tell Ronnie my mom says hello.” Scott gets up. “A highway for wolves,” he says. His voice is tinged with awe. “And I thought my problems were weird.” He exits, the bell clanging behind him with finality.

Marge, Jerry, and Loomis are left sitting on one side of a too-large booth. The chatter of the diner washes over them. Eventually, Marge sits up primly, seizing a burger and taking an aggressive bite.

“We need,” she says, “another meeting in the White House. Jerry, get me my spreadsheets. When is the next Big Block of Cheese Day?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big Block of Cheese Day was a [real thing](https://www.theatlantic.com/politics/archive/2015/01/the-real-story-of-the-white-house-and-the-big-block-of-cheese/384676/) where whoever wanted to could show up and complain to the White House senior staff. I wish they would reintroduce it, as I have some points I would like to make in person.


End file.
